The Battle of Death Mountain: Staging

[Okor]

Powdered black sand shifted beneath the slayer’s feet, the sulphurous atmosphere competing with his own aura of entropy for the dubious honour of being the most unpleasant odour in the region. There was no life to be found here, every step serving only to provide a new vista of death upon the horizon. He had borne witness to entire worlds being ushered to such a fate, their crust shattering as innumerable millennia of science pried their tectonic plates apart, bearing their molten core to the void. How many planets had burned by their own masters’ hands, simply to deny them the truth of Chaos?

Trillions had been atomized, still shackled to lies.

Fine grains of ebon glass passed through newly-grown fingers, trickling down to the ashen steppes of this realm. He drew in a rattling breath, the cyclopean window to a world of hate and hellfire falling upon the volcanic tower ahead of him.

Death Mountain.

An exceedingly dramatic title, but admittedly one that verged on being somewhat appropriate. A great wyrm lay coiled within its bowels, and the haphazard array of rumours brought forth by the ever-vengeful spirit within his armour attested to its might. Its simple mind scoured the dataverse, tearing forth truths from the unfathomable behemoth of knowledge that claimed the strange realm of knowledge and data he would never dream to touch. It stalked through ones and zeroes like an ancient predator, scarred and starved by millennia of violence and hunger, glutting itself upon the ripe bounty this new hunting ground had to offer, returning the choicest scraps to its master of meat and bone.

Pistons hissed as it guided its host to its feet, feeding its organic symbiote coloured hexadecimals, the shifting of code translating to hurried pict-recordings of fire and blood claiming what was Volvagia’s by right of strength. His final companion had done its duty, forewarning the fetid, fallen angel. Another step, another inch closer towards death. Muttered prayers, vocal libations offered up to appease the machine spirit, tumbled from his maw as his shambled towards the obsidian spire.

***

It took him several hours to arrive at the base camp, ramshackle shanties housing the warriors in this calm before the firestorm, strange, stone-hewn creatures hurrying between doorways, doing all they could to prepare for the upcoming battle of legend. They parted before him, the gorons glancing at him briefly before continuing their harried errands, a rough circle of solitude enshrouding him. As always, he stood apart from the world, his rotten mass plodding towards the gathering of primes, the hovering, shrouded figure of his Lord evident. Mere mortals surrounded the divine figure of his Master, the self-absorbed spirals of narcissism he had witnessed on that empty field being born anew in this scorched realm. He judged them as he approached, a reddened eye falling across them as the cynical corpse came to his Lord.

A golden-locked Fenrisian, clad in silvered steel plates, their jaw jutting forward like it was carved from pale marble, grinned cluelessly at the vista, a stone mallet twirling at absurd speed in their hand. He was not expecting them to ponder the mysteries of the universe any time soon, but this was hardly a requirement in battle. It was evident they were a warrior, and as long as they could leverage that to their advantage when the time came, there would be no quarrel.

His head swiveled, fossilized spine scraping against his armour as he looked upon more of the assemblage.

A woman leaned against the side of a hastily-erected hovel, darkness infusing her being. Ebon hair, black synth-skin, shining armour, and a similarly colourless cloak adorning her perpetually prepared body. A device hung from her hip, a seemingly bladeless sword. He decided to not question the wisdom of this, trusting that there were few primes foolish enough to walk into a war without a means of waging one.

Nearby, similarly impassive, was a man who had yet to discover colours other than black. Any armaments were kept concealed behind a lengthy coat, a disservice to the wargear’s machine spirit. Okor’s own remained mag-locked to his body, brazenly displaying their bulky, corroded mass.

A robed figure looked upon the other man with derision, a scowl embossed on their dour face. Dark robes, mystic runes swirling around the edges, failed to conceal a silver pentacle lying across his chest, offering up glimpses of focuses, fetishes, and other quintessential tools of magery. With luck, this warlock would not explode, or merge with others to become a nigh-unstoppable entity of destruction. He did not fancy his odds.

A dark-haired youth stood by Nealaphh’s side, a calculating expression present on their face, wisdom beyond their years evident in their eyes. Perhaps they were a prodigy, perhaps they were possessed by some unspeakable horror from beyond mortality. It had become increasingly hard to determine the nature of children in this realm, much to his annoyance.

Whirrs and clicks greeted his further steps as a heavily augmented woman glanced at him, a steel grin sealed to their darkened skin, crimson light pouring out from a cybernetic oculus as they watched his approach towards his Lord.

Clad in carapace, a man lurked in the shadows, a blood-red mask hiding him from the world as he watched the proceedings, ivory lenses set in his false face denying him any vestiges of humanity.

With a final heavy step, Okor came before Nealaphh, three emerald eyes gazing down at him as he stopped, knees protesting as he knelt before his Master. ”My Lord. Justice was… served.” He slowly began to rise, pulling a blade from an inglorious position on his back, mere cargo, rather than the artifact it could have been. It flew into the air, an idle toss supplemented by the telekinetic power of the Headmaster sequestering it within the swirling morass of sigils adorning its robes. He moved to Nealaphh’s side, his mind slowly relaxing, opening itself up to the ambient energies that emanated from his master, the chaos a taste of home, a reaffirmation of his continued dominance in this nonsensical realm. His claws wrapped around the pommel of his blade as he pressed its rusted tip into the dirt, standing vigil over the proceedings.